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3rd Person POV
The heavy oak doors of the Manhattan Criminal Courthouse swung open, spilling the hum of noise from inside into the crisp afternoon air.
Marcus Hale stormed out first, his jaw tight and his eyes full of rage, the image of a man who'd just taken a public beating he hadn't prepared for.
Right on his heels was his lawyer, Gregory Stone, the sharp-dressed Bratton Gould partner who had walked into court with confidence, but was now reduced to the only weapon he had left—silence.
The press had been waiting.
Microphones, cameras, and eager voices collided into a frenzied wall around them.
Reporters hurled questions from every angle:
"Mr. Hale, how do you respond to the evidence shown in court?"
"Mr. Stone, do you plan to fight this new evidence?"
"Is this the end of your client's career?"
Stone kept his face hard, every inch the lawyer trained to protect his client's image, but the fact he didn't answer with the same swagger as before told the story for him.
His only words—firm, clipped—were the same each time: "No comment."
He shepherded Hale through the swarm, shielding him with his own body at times, and the pair forced their way to the waiting black sedan.
Hale shoved himself inside, slamming the door harder than necessary, while Stone gave one last icy glance toward the crowd before climbing in after him.
A short distance behind, Liam Harper emerged from the courthouse.
He was calm, his tailored suit neat, his pace steady. He didn't hurry to catch up, didn't need to. He knew what had just happened inside spoke louder than any words could.
Flanking the doorway with him were Detective Raymond Cross and Officer Daniel Ruiz. Cross held a folded paper tightly in his hand and neither he nor Ruiz spoke.
The three men's eyes met briefly, and Liam gave Cross a subtle nod.
Cross returned it, his expression unreadable but his respect clear, then turned on his heel with Ruiz and left the courthouse steps.
The press had seen Liam now.
Like sharks scenting blood, they pivoted from Hale's retreating car to the young prosecutor making his way toward the parking lot.
The cameramen adjusted focus, the reporters surged forward, and within seconds, the spotlight shifted entirely.
"Mr. Harper! Mr. Harper!" one reporter called, breaking through the chatter. "This was your first big case. How does it feel to already be winning against such a high-profile defendant?"
Liam stopped just long enough to face them, his expression polite, his tone even.
"I just did my job and the case is far from over."
Another question fired immediately. "Are you planning to take this to trial, or are you open to negotiating a deal with the defense?"
Liam's lips curved into the faintest of smiles, but his words were firm.
"No comment."
But the reporters pressed harder, smelling the story.
One woman raised her mic. "Mr. Harper, Hale claims he's being framed, and his lawyer, Gregory Stone—one of Bratton Gould's senior partners—insists this case is a smear job. How do you respond to such a respected attorney being involved in what you're painting as a drug trafficking case?"
This time, Liam didn't sidestep. He met the reporter's gaze directly, his voice calm but edged with steel.
"The case wouldn't have moved forward to trial if Judge Harrington didn't see merit in the evidence presented. The prosecution has an overwhelming amount of proof, and nothing will stop me from bringing justice where it's due."
The air went still for a heartbeat after that statement, as if even the press absorbed the weight behind his words.
Then the flood returned with more questions, more mics shoved forward but Liam raised a hand, maintaining that same polite composure. "That's it for now."
Without another word, he turned, walked past the cluster of reporters, and made his way across the lot.
His bike waited, gleaming under the afternoon sun.
Sliding on his helmet with practiced ease, he mounted it, started the engine, and with one last composed glance over his shoulder at the flashing cameras, he pulled out of the parking lot.
The roar of the motorcycle carried him away, leaving behind the courthouse, the press, and the storm of questions—all of which he knew would only grow louder from here.
The soft glow of the late afternoon sun filtered through the blinds of Cameron Dennis's office, casting long stripes of light across the polished oak desk.
The District Attorney leaned back in his leather chair, phone pressed to his ear, his sharp blue suit jacket open and his tie loosened.
His voice was calm but clipped, the tone of a man who always sounded like he was already winning.
The door opened without ceremony, and Harvey Specter stepped inside—The closer.
The man who played every case like a chessboard, already ten moves ahead.
His tailored Tom Ford suit hugged him like armor, shoes gleaming, his expression carved from stone.
He didn't ask permission; Harvey never did. He just crossed the room, lowered himself onto the chair opposite Cameron's desk, and leaned back with effortless confidence.
Cameron looked up, raised a finger for patience, then said into the phone, "Got it. Keep me posted." He ended the call with a crisp click and finally gave Harvey his attention.
"Harvey" Cameron said, the faintest smirk playing at his lips. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Harvey didn't bother with pleasantries.
He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, voice low and direct.
"Did you hear about the Hale's case?"
Cameron's smirk widened.
He tapped his pen against the desk once, then nodded. "I did. That kid surprised me. He proved me wrong."
Harvey tilted his head, his expression unreadable but his eyes sharp. "How the hell did he find evidence we already concluded was a dead end? We went over that case with a microscope. We called it a loser."
"Indeed," Cameron said, leaning back in his chair with that trademark glint of amusement in his eyes. "But this shows something. It shows he has skills and potential and the contacts to back up that big ego of his."
Harvey sat back, arms crossed, processing that.
He hated being surprised, but he respected it when it was something like this.
"So what's next?" He asked
Cameron steepled his fingers. "Next? Hale's finished. Liam's got him by the balls. The evidence is airtight. If Hale's got half a brain, his lawyer's already preparing to crawl in here begging for a deal. He'll plead guilty. Reduced sentence, maybe probation. But this case? It's in the bag."
For the first time, Harvey allowed a smile. That rare half-smirk that carried more weight than most men's laughter. "He's good. Can't wait to meet him."
Cameron chuckled under his breath, shaking his head as though he were in on some private joke. "Why don't we take him out to dinner? Celebrate the win. After all, he did good and he's going to be working closely with us from now on."
"That works," Harvey said simply, his smirk matching Cameron's.
The office fell into a brief silence, the weight of their thoughts lingering in the air.
Both men were seasoned veterans, sharks in the legal world, and neither handed out praise lightly but in their minds, both came to the same conclusion:
This kid Liam Harper wasn't just another rookie.
He was something else entirely.
A storm in the making and they both knew, sooner or later, they wanted to be close enough to see just how far he could go.
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